


Lady Griffon

by aphreal



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 18:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10814424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphreal/pseuds/aphreal
Summary: A Dragon Age fairy tale, complete with masked ball.A meeting between strangers behind masks, neither quite sure they want to be there. Dancing, sparring, and perhaps the start of something more.





	1. Masquerade

She stopped just inside the doorway, surveying the crowded ballroom and wondering if the mask she had been forced to wear would serve to conceal a curled lip or lowered brows. Even with the anonymity of a disguise, it would be impolitic to let her disdain for the evening’s events show. Tonight’s masquerade was hosted by the king himself, and any noble family worth their heraldry would have known better than to ignore the remarkably specific invitations that had arrived bearing the royal seal. Rumor said that every noble household, from teyrn to bann, had been invited and strongly encouraged to attend. Judging by the crowd of richly garbed men and women filling the ballroom, most of the kingdom’s titled families had treated those instructions like the royal command they unofficially were. 

Scanning the crowd, she saw that the rest of the unusual instructions had been followed equally faithfully. The worthies gathered around the fringes of the ballroom, browsing the buffet tables or seated in small clusters for conversation, wore sensible, elegant court dress and had uncovered faces. Only the dance floor itself looked like it had been transported from Orlais, filled with people - mostly younger, her contemporaries and juniors - wearing outlandish costumes and elaborate masks. 

She cast a brief, resentful glance at her brother, seated with their parents and an arlessa of her mother’s acquaintance, all of them casually chatting and blissfully bare-faced. The masquerade portion of the ball extended only to members of noble families who remained unmarried, revealing the festivities as another of the king’s attempts - a particularly desperate one, according to the gossips - to find a bride for his younger son. The prince must be among the anonymous masked crowd on the dance floor, along with nearly every other eligible noble son and daughter in the entire kingdom. 

She raised her chin, feeling the soft weight of her mask’s feathered plumage settling around her face and head. As she walked to the dance floor, the matching feathered cape shifted on her shoulders, and her skirt spread open to reveal the decorative underskirt that completed her costume. Drawing confidence from these tangible reminders of the bold guise she had chosen for the evening, she strode into the mass of assembled nobles, prepared for the evening to begin. 

Unsurprisingly, her arrival drew attention, glances and whispers as those gathered sized up the new player. The first man to approach her wore finely tooled leathers cut and dyed to resemble the livery of a royal huntsman, and the arm he offered when he asked her to dance bore a wide-cuffed leather glove that extended to his elbow. 

If she had to be here, she might as well make the best of it, and there were certainly worse fates than an evening of dancing and conversation with her peers. She graciously accepted his invitation, placing her hand on his offered arm, her gold-lacquered nails contrasting nicely with the dark leather of his glove, and allowed him to lead her into the area cleared for dancing. 

The satisfied, amused grin visible below his dark leather half mask caused fine hairs to rise on the back of her neck, but she dismissed the alarm as unnecessary. Doubtless his expression had been distorted by the mask concealing the upper portion of his face, creating the predatory edge that she found unsettling. 

Drawing to a halt among the other couples arrayed to dance, the huntsman took hold of her hand, moving it from his arm to set it on his shoulder. Rather than placing his own hand at her waist as she expected, he brushed the cape back from her arm, then trailed his hand possessively down the side of her bodice, coming to rest further down her hip than was customary. Or welcome. 

Taking her other hand in his gloved grip, he smiled again, the same predatory grin that made her skin prickle and her fingers twitch in search of a hilt that wasn’t within reach. Fixing her lips into a thin smile, she shoved the discomfort aside as the music began. There was no need to make a scene; surely she could endure this man for the length of one song. 

As they fell into the steps of the dance, with her following his rather forceful lead, her partner’s smile broadened. “And thus the falconer tames the beautiful wild hawk to his wrist.” 

She couldn’t control her startled, disdainful laugh at his smug proclamation. “I’m afraid you’ll find that the attempt would cost you the wrist, along with the rest of the arm it’s attached to.” 

His eyes widened, the whites shockingly visible behind his dark mask. The arrogant, playful lilt in his voice took on a dangerous edge, and his grip on her hand tightened. “You wound me, my lady. What’s more, you insult me. Do you truly mean to suggest a master huntsman such as myself cannot hood and jess even the fiercest bird of prey?” 

Pulling away from his hold, she stepped out of the measure of the dance, heedless of the other couples nimbly dodging around the unexpected obstacle she presented. “You look at a beak and feathers and see only a raptor you can control.” She gestured at her mask and cape before holding out her underskirt to emphasize the golden, leonine pattern worked into the fabric. “But any falconer foolish enough to try to capture a griffon deserves whatever harm befalls him.” She smiled fiercely, more a baring of teeth than a pleasant gesture. “I suggest you quit the field before you are made to regret your attempt.” 

Gathering the remains of his dignity, the would-be falconer left with a dismissive sneer, threading his way through the still-dancing couples. She watched him go with a sense of relief, gradually feeling the tension leave her chest and her breathing return to normal. What she wouldn’t give to find that oaf during the grand melee at tomorrow’s tournament. Some men were best dealt with at a sword’s length. 

Her next several dance partners proved similarly unimpressive, although thankfully none were quite so presumptuous. The largest annoyance among them came from a slender figure in a bear mask who she strongly suspected to be an arl’s son she had known since childhood. In recent months, he had become tedious, attempting to capitalize on the longstanding friendship between their fathers. She had pointedly ignored all of his suggestions - both subtle and not so subtle - about their families benefiting from an alliance through marriage, hoping the self-centered young lordling would eventually accept her disinterest without forcing her to insult his family by issuing an outright rejection. His decision to seek a dance with her tonight suggested she had been less successful than she hoped - and that he’d bribed one of her family’s servants to discover her planned costume so he could find her tonight. Hoping the fictional anonymity of the masks would blunt the consequences of her rudeness, she firmly refused his offers of both a second dance and drinks, escaping his presence with what little grace she could manage. 

Mentally cursing the king, the prince, the unknown greedy maid who had set the arl’s son on her, and every lecherous or ambitious noble’s son in attendance, she deliberately threaded her way into the midst of the throng, hoping to get lost in the crowd and avoid attention for a while. 

Of course, given her luck this evening, that ploy didn’t last for long. Before the orchestra had finished two more songs, her brief respite was interrupted. She steeled herself as the next masked nobleman approached, his appraising glance and eye contact removing any hope that she might escape a conversation with him. He wore a costume styled to resemble armor, quilted padding and cloth of silver with accents of lightweight chainmail. A faux mail hauberk covered his shoulders and hair, while an armor-like metal mask hid the top half of his face. He moved like a man comfortable in armor, but the bow he made to greet her held the effortless fluidity of a noble accustomed to life at court. Intrigued by the combination of grace and martial bearing, she resolved to at least give him a fair hearing. 

As he rose from the bow, his gaze sought hers, the brown of his eyes warm behind the cold steel of his mask. “My lady griffon?” 

Catching sight of a crest on his costume armor - a griffon rampant, blue on silver, the heraldry of an order of warriors as legendary as the griffons they’d gone into battle with, and equally extinct - she responded in kind. “Ser Warden.” 

His startled smile - perhaps he hadn’t expected her to recognize the emblem? - brought a sparkle to his eyes, and she suspected he might be handsome under the mask, at least when he smiled. “I’m glad I found you. I was told I should look for you.” 

She frowned, wondering who was playing what sort of game here. Why would anyone know who she was to send a man to speak with her? As instructed, only her family knew what costume she had chosen, although her encounter with the young bear earlier suggested the information might have leaked a bit. “Told by whom?” 

The armored man shrugged, a wry half smile on his face. “Some people I met this evening. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that because…” 

“They were wearing masks, of course.” She cut him off, realizing how foolish her question had been, in retrospect. But the man’s smile seemed inviting rather than mocking, offering a shared jest instead of finding humor at her expense. 

“Exactly. So I don’t know who they were, only that I was told I should ask you to dance, then warned that I should be careful because a griffon can take a man’s hand off.” 

She bared her teeth in a warning smile, recognizing the threat she’d made to the huntsman earlier; if this man was one of his friends, she would prefer to be rid of him as quickly as possible. “She can, yes, if he puts that hand where it doesn’t belong.” 

“That seems like a reasonable response to his disrespect.” He nodded calmly, looking not the least bit flustered or offended, at least from what she could see of his face below the mask. 

But after the evening she’d had thus far, she couldn’t quite trust him. “So he sent you to me in the hope that a Grey Warden could tame a griffon?” 

“Maybe.” He shrugged casually, a lopsided grin spreading on his face as he continued. “Or maybe he wanted to see me get my hand torn off.” 

She returned his smile, amused in spite of herself, unsure what to make of this man with his lack of posturing and ready humor. 

Before she could decide how to respond, he continued, still in that same casual, genuine manner. “Regardless, he’s going to be disappointed. I certainly won’t give you cause to take my arm off, and I’ve never thought Wardens were in the business of taming griffons anyway. From all of the stories I’ve heard about them - and believe me, there have been a lot -” His wry tone conveyed some personal joke in that aside. “The relationship between Grey Wardens and griffons always seemed more like a partnership based on mutual respect and trust. It’s like… a warhorse that takes a man into battle. A combat stallion should never be tamed; breaking his spirit like that would destroy everything about him worth valuing. A tame warhorse would be useless, ruined, and I imagine taming a griffon would be even more of a tragedy. In both cases, what a man needs is not a docile, obedient servant but a partner he can trust as his equal.” 

She couldn’t quite decide if he was still speaking in metaphors or not - and how precisely to interpret some of that if he was - but either way, he was genuine and likeable, by far the most promising company she’d had all evening. It wasn’t a hard decision. “In that case, yes.” 

He blinked, eyes narrowing as he tried to follow her train of thought. “Yes what?” 

“Yes, I think I would like to dance with you.” 

“Oh… right then.” He sounded startled, but a smile slowly spread on his face, his eyes warm and friendly as the confusion faded and he held out a hand to her. There was nothing predatory in his expression, nothing possessive in the fingers that wrapped around hers to lead her into the whirling maelstrom of the dance floor. When they moved into a dance hold, he remained appropriately respectful, his hand placed properly at her waist. His relaxed posture - no tension in the shoulder her “taloned” hand rested on - suggested he acted out of genuine polite respect for her rather than a fear she would remove straying hands by force. 

Stepping into the tempo of the music, she was delighted to discover that they moved together smoothly. Whatever his background, he danced elegantly, comfortably accustomed to this sort of formal event. He had clearly been raised to this life every bit as much as she had. 

“Why a griffon?” 

His question startled her, unexpected but not unreasonable. She looked around at the other dancing couples around them, ladies dressed as butterflies and flowers and songbirds. Soft things that were too easily broken. Trying to put her thoughts into words, she attempted an answer. “I have no interest in appearing fragile or delicate.” Tilting her head, she tried to make light of a far too serious truth. “You have the right idea, coming in armor. I wish I’d thought of that.” 

His eyes behind the mask studied her more intently now, serious scrutiny that made her uneasy. Despite the mask covering her face, she felt exposed, as if this fierce costume revealed more of her true self than a formal gown and bare face would have. Seeking more even footing, she turned the question back on him. “Why a Grey Warden?” 

“Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.” He chuckled with a wry smile. “To be honest, it was my brother’s idea. He’s always had this hero worship for the Wardens. It was all I heard about from him growing up, stories about their heroic past. I think he’s living some vicarious fantasy by dressing me up as one tonight since he’s not eligible for the masquerade.” 

So her anonymous dance partner was a younger son with at least one older brother already married. Not an heir hoping his title might raise his status in the eyes of a woman seeking social advancement through marriage. Had he revealed that deliberately to test her intentions? Was he trying to establish her status in return? Since she had no ulterior motives, there was no harm in her being honest. 

Offering a companionable smile, she responded to what he’d said, both overt and implied. “My older brother is exempt tonight as well, but thankfully he felt no need to get involved in planning my costume.” 

His easy laugh held no trace of calculation, and nothing in his demeanor changed as she admitted she wasn’t an heir either, suggesting he wasn’t hoping to use the masquerade for social climbing any more than she was. So she’d ruled out him being interested in her for either carnal conquest or a potential title. Gradually, she started to believe in the miraculous prospect of having actual pleasant company for the evening. 

When the song ended, neither of them moved to leave the dance hold, instead smoothly transitioning together into the new tempo as the next piece began. 

Over the course of the next few dances, they relaxed with one another, chatting about inconsequential things. Honoring the spirit of the masquerade, she was careful not to reveal anything that might suggest her identity. She noted her dance partner seemed to be doing the same. 

But somehow, being denied most of the common avenues of small talk - details about one’s family, friends, or home - led the conversation into deeper paths. She found herself sharing treasured childhood memories, hopes and frustrations, parts of herself she would never imagine discussing with a stranger. And again, her partner did the same. The anonymity of the masks inspired a strange sort of trust, and she learned more about him in an hour than many people she’d known for years. 

She laughed more in that hour than any evening she could remember since she was a child. 

The toll of the bell marking midnight and the end of the masquerade startled her. How had it gotten so late? She’d spent the entire evening dancing and talking with this man and not even noticed the passage of time. 

The music drew to a close, and she reluctantly accepted that the evening was at an end. Keeping hold of her dance partner’s hand, she offered him one more final truth. “I enjoyed tonight far more than I expected to.” 

“So did I.” Smiling, he raised her hand to his lips for a single, brief kiss, barely more than warm breath across her skin. “Thank you, my Lady Griffon, and good night.” 

With that, he departed, leaving her wearing a smile that felt a world away from the scowl she had worn when she arrived.


	2. Melee and Unmasking

Festivities continued the next morning with a tournament. Following the masquerade theme, all of the contestants - both riders in the joust and competitors in the melee - had been instructed to wear a helmet that fully concealed the face and to fight under a device that referenced their costume of the previous evening, rather than displaying their personal or family heraldry. 

The latter instruction had posed a slight problem for her because she never carried a shield, preferring the greater reach of a two-handed broadsword, especially in the hectic, multi-person combat of a melee. In an attempt to honor the spirit of the king’s invitation, she’d had her father’s armorer place silvery wings on the sides of her helmet and fashion armored boots etched with stylized leonine claws. She hoped those symbols would proclaim her chosen griffon identity for the event and be an acceptable alternative to a shield she had no intention of using. 

Fortunately, her entry to the melee was not contested on the basis of her sex or her lack of a device, and she assembled with the others in the large combat ring feeling far more confident than she had when approaching the dance floor the previous night. Here, wearing armor rather than a gown, she was in her element. And it didn’t hurt that injuring someone who treated her with disrespect would be entirely appropriate and expected today. 

Because the tournament had been designed as part of matchmaking festivities, the melee bore softer rules than usual. Bloodsport didn’t set a particularly romantic tone, and it would be difficult for contestants to continue wooing later after serious injury. Rather than fighting until they were incapacitated, combatants would be eliminated from the melee when they either yielded or were driven out of the ring that defined the field of combat. Even so, healers’ tents had been set up alongside the field, where both mundane and magical treatment would be available to deal with the inevitable casualties of the day’s events. 

The initial chaos of combat when the king announced the start of the melee proved every bit as overwhelming as she expected. With so many contestants entered, getting in one another’s way seemed inevitable. Doubtless some skilled competitors were eliminated through bad luck in the initial crush, pushed out of bounds or caught in a bad position and forced to yield. She, however, kept her feet and used the weight and reach of her oversized sword to establish her hold on a small patch of ground, knocking back those who tried to force her away from it. 

Once the numbers had been thinned somewhat in those first few hectic moments, the remaining competitors paused for breath and sized up the field. Her rough count estimated about two dozen still in the ring, but she had no time to catalogue them further, too busy facing a charge from the nearest opponent. 

Several men challenged her after that first one, and if any of them thought a woman would be an easy opponent, she thoroughly disabused them of that notion. Broad sweeps of her sword knocked men from their feet - sometimes two or three caught in its arc at a time - and once they were on their backs on the flagstones, they yielded readily to a blade held at their throats. She didn’t care whose hand was on the blade; she didn’t have enough ego to insist on them yielding to her personally, so long as they forfeited their place in the melee and quit the field. 

As two of her challengers left the circle, one audibly cursing his misfortune, she saw another man walking towards her, his sword held off to the side, deliberately nonthreatening. Cautiously, she let him approach, studying him warily. 

She recognized his eyes first, a familiar brown that was as warm through a helmet as it had been behind a steel mask. A quick glance at his shield confirmed that it bore the Grey Warden emblem that had been sewn onto his quilted doublet at the masquerade. He inclined his head in a respectful nod when he reached her. “Lady Griffon. I see you found your armor after all.” 

“Ser Warden.” She didn’t bother to fight the smile that came to her face at his greeting. “I did. It seemed like appropriate attire for this morning.” 

“Very much so.” He brought his sword slowly up to a guard position. “Might I have the honor?” 

She wondered what it said about him that he was more comfortable challenging her to a duel than asking her to dance. Probably much the same as it said about her that she preferred this invitation to the previous one. 

Raising her own blade, she responded with genuine pleasure. “I would be delighted.” 

He didn’t wait for further discussion, moving immediately into a series of rapid, fluid attacks she found herself hard pressed to counter. Within a few moments, however, she took his measure, and they fell into a rhythm in combat every bit as smoothly as they had on the dance floor. He fought remarkably well, deflecting her attacks and pressing in with surprising lunges that forced her to dodge quickly out of the way, but when she landed a two-handed blow on his shield, his arm strained visibly not to buckle under the impact. Her broadsword had greater reach than his one-handed blade, but he used his shield like a second weapon, giving her few openings. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sparred with someone who provided her with such an even match. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had used so many tactics that surprised her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun in a combat ring. If she’d had breath to spare, she would have laughed from the sheer joy of it. 

As the match stretched on, the challenge of such intense sparring wore her down. Her breathing grew ragged, and sweat soaked the padding beneath her armor. Her arms grew fatigued from the effort of swinging her large sword, and she could see her opponent’s movements slow as his exertions took a toll on him also. She was dimly aware of other combatants moving around the ring. She heard the distant clang of metal and grunts of effort, but they all stayed well back, respecting the test of skill taking place. 

After a particularly fierce exchange - his attack left an opening she tried to take advantage of, but he wrenched his shield to block barely in time, a hard collision that jarred her arm right up to the shoulder - he raised a hand to call for a halt. Panting, she nodded agreement, taking a half step back and lowering her sword to rest the point on the ground, relief for her aching arms. 

“You fight as well as you dance.” His words came between uneven breaths, but the crinkles around his eyes suggested a smile. 

“I would say the same.” She returned the smile, even though he wouldn’t be able to see it through her hemet. 

“Thank you for giving me the chance to find out.” He nodded his head stiffly. “It’s been a pleasure. And now I’ll clear the field for you to take on the next challenger, may he fare no better.” 

“You’re yielding?” Startled, she recoiled, disappointment flooding through her and turning to bitter anger. “Is it that you can’t stand to hit a woman, or that you don’t want to risk losing to one?” 

He laughed, sudden and sharp. “Neither, I promise. If you allow it, I will gladly face you again any time you choose. But for today, I’m finished because I think…” He shifted his shield arm, wincing with an audible hiss of breath. “No, I’m quite certain that you’ve broken my collarbone.” 

She stared in horror; she certainly hadn’t meant to truly injure him. Her gasp of shock and fumbled apology were lost in his slightly pained chuckle and parting words. “Well fought, my Lady Griffon.” 

He raised his sword hand again, signaling his surrender to the marshal, and she watched as he walked off the field, carriage stiff and careful as he tried not to jar his injury any further. As soon as he reached the edge of the ring, squires escorted him to the healers’ tents. Her gaze lingered as he vanished inside, her guilt growing. Of all the men she had met at the previous evening’s ball, he had been the one she had no wish to harm. 

Her concern for him lingered through the rest of the melee, and that distraction likely contributed to her eventual elimination from the tournament. Facing one of the remaining two combatants, a tall man armed with a long-handled axe, she lost track of her place on the field, allowing a wide sweep of his axe to force her out of the ring. Cursing her mistake, she nevertheless saluted her opponent and consoled herself with having secured one of the laurel wreaths that honored the final three competitors. 

 

For the second night in a row, she hesitated at the entrance to the great hall. The masks were thankfully gone tonight, all of the nobility appearing as themselves with no further subterfuge. The only remnants of the masquerade were small tokens of identity, voluntarily worn by those wishing to claim their disguise from the past two days. If a guest wanted to meet their dance partner again now that the masks were gone, they could display an indication of their costume and hope the partner they wished to find had done the same. If a guest wished to remain anonymous from anyone they might have met at the masquerade, no token was required and all could be forgotten. 

She had made no plans in advance to be recognized tonight. 

Which had led to some difficult moments this afternoon as she pulled feathers from her mask and attempted to fashion them into a rough corsage or brooch that would identify her to the mystery “Warden” she had danced and dueled with. 

She’d tried to find him that morning after she was eliminated from the melee. She’d hoped to follow after her sparring partner, to make sure he was all right, but the healers had refused her admittance to the tents because she bore no injuries of her own. So that left this unmasking reception as her only hope to apologize for having hurt a man who had been nothing but kind to her. She hoped he would recognize her poorly made feathered corsage as a symbol of her griffon costume from the previous evening. She hoped he would want to look for her at all. 

Thankfully, the feathers wouldn’t have to stand on their own to identify her. On a whim, she’d also worn the laurel wreath she won for placing third in the melee. The coronet of dark green leaves pinned to her braided golden hair ought to be more distinctive than a cluster of grey feathers at her shoulder, and she’d rather be recognized for her combat prowess than her dancing, anyway. 

Standing at the edge of the hall, she scanned the crowd for the blue and silver of the Grey Warden crest. The man she was looking for had worn it at both the masquerade and the melee, so surely that would be the token he’d chosen to identify himself at tonight’s unmasking. But as she stared at the passing throng, nobles decked out in fine fabrics and rich colors, that familiar heraldry was nowhere to be seen. Several times, her heart leapt at a flash of silver or a splash of blue, but she was always disappointed when a second look revealed only cloth-of-silver slashing on a sleeve or blue brocade trimming a doublet. 

Having finished her initial perusal of the room, she started over, meticulously passing her gaze over each person in the assembled crowd. She scrutinized all of them, beginning at the wine fountain against the left hand wall and ending at the unlit hearth on her right. Still no sign of the Grey Warden crest. But people were moving around, mingling and chatting and drinking. She could have missed him. She made a third pass, then a fourth, trying to keep her sweeping eyes steady, to ignore the growing agitation at his absence. To deny the obvious conclusion that she could not find his token because he did not want to be found, did not want to see her again. 

As she stood at the edge of the crowd, aloof from the throng, flexing her fingers to fight the urge to clench her fists and give away her frustration, she felt eyes on her. Someone was looking at her, staring even. Frowning, she swept her gaze quickly over the room again, in search of the source of that stare. Her scrutiny might have drawn attention, certainly, but with as carefully as she was watching the crowd, she ought to have noticed whoever was watching her, in turn. Unless… 

Startled, she looked to the one part of the room she had ignored in her visual sweeps thus far. The royal dais. 

She recognized his eyes first, familiar from behind a steel mask and through the visor of a helmet; it was almost disconcerting to see them now without a barrier concealing his face from her. He was definitely staring at her. Their eyes locked for a moment before her gaze flicked away, looking for the familiar griffon heraldry, which she found on his doublet, right next to the royal crest. 

The prince. She had danced with the prince. She had dueled with the prince. She had injured the prince. A broken collarbone went well beyond lese majeste and bordered on treason, at the very least. 

But, from the brief glimpse she’d had of his face, he didn’t look angry with her. Quite the contrary, actually. 

Forcing herself to raise her eyes back up, she met his gaze again, holding it this time. She’d been right; there was no anger in his face. Warmth, surprise, perhaps a trace of nerves. But no anger, no royal displeasure. She wondered what he saw in her face in return. 

After a long moment of them staring across the room at one another, wary and wondering, his lips quirked into a tiny half smile, and he stepped down from the elevated dais. His eyes never left hers as he strode across the room, nobles and courtiers scattering out of his path. Her pulse rose in uncertain anticipation. 

She dropped into a curtsey as he neared. “Your Highness.” 

“I liked it better when you called me Ser Warden.” His smile was wry, almost as awkward as when he’d first approached her at the masquerade. She couldn’t help but smile back at him, put more at ease by that familiar expression. He raised an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely at her token. “Those are griffon feathers, I hope.” 

She brushed at the hastily-constructed cluster of silvery plumes, trying hopelessly to straighten them. “They’re meant to be, but they aren’t very impressive, I’m afraid. I… wasn’t expecting to need them.” 

He stared at her for a moment, face unreadable and lips parted as if he meant to say something but wasn’t quite sure what. 

With a rush, she remembered why she had been looking for him in the first place. “I’m so sorry about your collarbone! Are you all right?” 

He blinked, then laughed softly. “I’m fine. The healers know their work. I’d nearly forgotten about it, although I wouldn’t want to be facing you in the ring again just yet.” His smile managed to be both shy and fond. “The laurels suit you.” 

“Thank you.” She raised a hand to her hair in a reflexive, self-conscious gesture. “I thought they might be more distinctive than my poor excuse for plumage.” 

His eyes flicked back to the silver feathers, and that unreadable expression returned. She wished she could guess what he was thinking. Was he disappointed by what had been behind her mask and beneath her helm? Confused by her? If so, he certainly wouldn’t be the first nobleman who didn’t know what to make of a teyrn’s daughter with a love of armor and swordplay. 

His hesitant confusion finally crystallized into a question. “Were you looking for me?” 

“Of course.” Why would he even need to ask? He’d been the only person she’d met in the past two days worth seeing again. 

“To apologize for this morning?” The wry smile returned. 

She nodded, then compelled by the honesty they had shared at the masquerade, found herself admitting more. “Also in the hope of a rematch.” 

His eyebrow raised. “Sparring or dancing?” She thought she saw amusement in his eyes, despite the serious expression. 

“Both?” Her hopeful smile won an answering laugh that warmed her from the inside. 

Squaring his shoulders, he returned his gaze to hers, forthright and firm, although a hint of nerves showed in the wideness of his eyes. “Would you care to join me for dinner?” 

“I would be honored, Your Highness.” The response was reflexive, the way her parents and tutors had raised her to respond to invitations from a social superior. 

He frowned, his expression twisting into something bitter before shuttering completely into an impassive mask. 

Her breath caught at the near-physical pain of his abrupt coldness, the loss of the tentative, warm rapport. Swallowing, she tried again, ignoring the royal crest on his doublet and focusing only on the man she had talked and laughed with the previous night, who had been honored to lose to her this morning. She had come to the unmasking looking for that man, not some distant prince. “More importantly, I would be very happy to spend more time with you, Ser Warden.” 

His smile returned, smaller and more wary than before her lapse, but infinitely better than the gaping distance that had grown after it. “The rematch, of either sort, will have to wait a few days. The healers will have fits if I don’t let the mended bone harden. Dinner, however, I think I can manage tonight.” 

He offered her an arm, which she gladly accepted, and a shy smile that she returned just as bashfully. His forearm was solid beneath the fine fabric of his sleeve, and the contact felt natural and comfortable, just like dancing with him had the previous evening. Taking a steadying breath, she mastered her nerves; prince or not, he was still the man she had so unexpectedly enjoyed spending the masquerade with. 

His broadening smile lost its nervy edge, as well, and there was genuine warmth in his eyes when he tilted his head towards the royal dais where the king and crown prince waited. “Shall we go tell them we’re ready for dinner, then? I’ll warn you, my brother is likely to be insufferable about his suggestion for a disguise having worked out so well.” He grinned, eyes sparkling, as he led her across the room, chattering away about his family, clearly delighted to introduce her to them. 

She followed his lead, uncertain where this might be heading on a larger scale, but confident that she would gladly face the journey at his side.


End file.
